A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  After what seemed an eternity of clicking, muttering, and cursing, the lock’s latch finally released and Violet stepped back, allowing the door to open. Mariette’s expression upon seeing her was all the indication she needed as to how dreadful her appearance was. He offered an arm and helped her step outside. “What day is this?” she demanded, her only thought whether Sam was aware of her absence.

  “It’s Thursday, of course. The ball has started.” Mariette pointed off in the distance, where Pasha’s villa dominated the skyline. Violet exhaled in relief. Only hours had passed.

  She looked back at the building in which she had been temporarily entombed. It was the same mausoleum where Julie had dragged Violet earlier in the day to share her concerns about Isabelle and her worry that servants were being targeted.

  Violet was more confused than ever, but remembered something that had happened before her attack.

  “Monsieur, do you know who someone named Tewfik is?”

  “Tewfik Pasha? Of course, he is the khedive’s son, although not his favorite. Pasha went to great lengths to secure a younger son as his heir, but the sultan wouldn’t permit it. Why do you ask?”

  Violet ignored his question. “And what of Orabi? Do you know who that is?”

  Mariette frowned. “I do not believe I know this name, madame. Where did you hear of it?”

  “From the khedive,” Violet said, hoping her vague answer was enough to avoid further inquiry.

  The Frenchman didn’t seem curious about her questions and instead presented his own. “Madame Harper, may I escort you somewhere? To your husband, perhaps? You do not look well at all, and your forehead—” He clucked almost disapprovingly. “I still do not understand how you managed to get yourself trapped inside this building which was locked from the outside.”

  Violet deftly sidestepped his question and observations with a query of her own. “I might ask how you happened upon my distressing situation.”

  Mariette shrugged. “I like to walk by myself late in the day, and now I’m glad that I do so, for otherwise I would not have found you. I have been preparing myself for this evening’s event, which I confess I dread. I have much to accomplish in my time here, and I prefer to be studying in my tent this evening, instead of smiling and partaking in the grand waste of francs that tonight will prove to be. Ah, speaking of francs, I have something of value to give you.”

  He dug into a pocket inside his cream-colored linen jacket. With a flourish, he produced a book.

  Violet took it and studied the gold-embossed titling on the burgundy leather cover:

  Mariette-Bey

  Itinéraire des Invités de S. A. le Khédive aux Fêtes de l’Inauguration du Canal de Suez

  “I mentioned this to you at dinner last night. It gives details about all of the digs in this part of Egypt, and is intended as a souvenir of the opening celebrations, as well as an itinerary that can be followed for anyone who wants to visit the archaeological sites,” Mariette said.

  How very coincidental that he happened to have this volume on him as he chanced upon Violet’s dire situation. “Thank you, sir, I shall look forward to perusing it. Tomorrow, of course, as I must still change my clothes and get to the ball.”

  “If you are certain you are well enough . . . ?”

  Violet nodded. “I am well enough.”

  “Then I insist that I be permitted to escort you to your quarters to ensure no further harm comes to you.” He offered her his arm, and despite Violet’s fright that whoever her attacker was might have returned to de Lesseps’s villa, she allowed him to walk with her back there.

  The villa was deserted except for a few servants who permitted her upstairs to get ready. Interestingly, not a single one of them inquired about her appearance, pretending that a fright of a woman was simply an everyday occurrence. The coffee tray had been cleaned up so that there was no trace of what had happened there: no dregs, no china shards, not even a stain on the wood.

  Violet went to Louise-Hélène’s darkened rooms and turned up the gas in several lamps before preparing herself for the evening. A glance in a mirror gave her pause. Perhaps Mariette was right about her condition. She straightened her shoulders. Violet Harper was not going to permit some madman to cow her into submission. If he was at tonight’s ball, he was going to witness her entry and quake with fear that she had literally risen from among the dead.

  She was finally dressed and presentable, with her hair pinned dramatically around her forehead to cover the bruising. Violet took one last look in the mirror before leaving. It might not be perfect, but it was a definite improvement over what she had looked like a short time ago. Before departing, though, she picked up Mariette’s book and quickly flipped through the pages, which featured descriptions and line drawings of his various digs. Names like Luxor, Thebes, and Karnak flashed before her. But what stopped her was the inscription to her in the front of the book.

  To Madame Harper,

  For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

  Auguste Mariette

  17th November 1869

  An innocuous Biblical inscription. Certainly Mariette’s life—and heart—had been with his famous digs, and this was probably how he inscribed all copies of his book. And yet . . . there was something odd about it. Violet tucked the book in with her other things, which she would pick up later. For now, it was time to get to the ball.

  As Violet walked to the palace, which rose like a beacon from the ground, with thousands of shining lights beckoning the distinguished guests to come and mingle inside, she couldn’t help but contemplate her rescue from the mausoleum.

  Had Mariette truly just been walking about and stumbled upon Violet? Maybe Violet’s suspicions were reaching the point of derangement. After all, if Mariette had bashed her head and then buried her in the mausoleum, he certainly wouldn’t have come by to rescue her.

  Unless this had all been merely a warning to her.

  Chapter 22

  The grounds of Pasha’s palace were even more impressive than what Violet had witnessed earlier that very morning. Enough torches were lit so that one probably could have read a book outside if one so desired. As Rashad had indicated, musicians filled both of the gazebos at the start of the long entry tent. As she and other straggling guests waited to enter, they were entertained by costumed performers inside each painted tableau Violet had seen earlier, striking poses and sometimes comical expressions. One contained men pantomiming the digging of the canal, with their backdrop painted realistically like the shore of the canal, even including the sight of a mechanical dredge to one side. Another tableau was painted to look like one of the grand pavilions, and in front of it two actors dressed like de Lesseps and Pasha shook hands, waved, and clapped each other on the back.

  The many tableaux, though, were nothing compared to the interior of Pasha’s palace, which was even grander than what Mariette had described at last night’s dinner. The main reception hall was lined with sofas against Moorish-tiled walls in a fascinating array of cobalt, cocoa, mustard, lime, and burnt umber. In fact, every square inch of the immense space was either tiled or painted decoratively, including the columns under rounded archways that marked entries into other parts of the palace. The ceiling must have been thirty feet high, and from the center of it, inside a rounded floral design, hung a great gas chandelier, hissing with so many jets that the entire space was brightly lit.

  Combined with the crush of guests milling about, their voices drowning out the musicians who sat on a balcony overlooking one end of the reception hall, it was all enough to overwhelm Violet, who had had quite enough for one day. It was incredible to think that, once again, Pasha had topped his previous extravaganza.

  She stood on the outskirts of the grand fête, scanning the immense crowd for any sign of Sam or his fellow Americans. As she mulled over how to most efficiently look for Sam, the khedive’s cultural attaché, Hassan Salib, approached the rails of the musicians’ balcony. He clapped his han
ds together to get the audience’s attention.

  “We now begin the introduction of the most esteemed and honored dignitaries,” he said loudly, his voice echoing around the room. By instinct, Violet and everyone else turned to face the doors through which they had come, which had been closed at some point. Liveried servants threw the doors open, and Hassan began announcing the guests singly and in pairs.

  “Her Highness Eugénie, Empress of France, and the man above nearly all other men, Monsieur Ferdinand de Lesseps.”

  To great applause, de Lesseps entered with Eugénie on his arm. Eugénie’s gown, as Violet suspected, eclipsed the gown Louise-Hélène had planned for the evening. The empress wore a scarlet silk gown so bright that it practically flashed in the gaslight. It contained magnificent folds, revealing white silk panels in the front and blue stripes slashed down the side of the skirt, with a large bustle in the back and a train that did not permit anyone to get too close to her. Eugénie looked as though she were completely wrapped in the French flag, which was undoubtedly her intent. Poor Louise-Hélène.

  “His Highness Isma’il Pasha and his beloved son Tewfik.”

  To further applause, in walked the khedive and his son, the young man she had seen seated morosely at the sovereign’s table last night. Despite his youth and dour expression, the boy carried himself like a far more mature man. He did not wear all of the medals and decoration his father did, but was finely groomed nonetheless. Were these really the two men she had overheard arguing a few hours ago?

  Pasha and Tewfik stood to one side, as if waiting for someone or something.

  The presentations went on, with the musicians striking up the chords of whatever national anthem was associated with that particular representative. His Imperial Highness Franz-Josef entered alone, as did Crown Prince Frederick and the Prince of Wales. Grand Duke Michael of Russia marched in with General Ignatiev. Prince Henry and Princess Sophie of Holland stumbled in, laughing, perhaps already a little tipsy. Other rulers followed in suit upon their names being announced, and the stirring patriotic music filled the room.

  “And so the shawabtis spring to life,” came a deep intoning from behind her.

  Another man’s voice, again familiar. She whirled around. “Le bon Théo!” she exclaimed, happy to see him. “What is a shab— What did you say?”

  “Shawabti. They are part of old Egyptian lore. The shawabtis were figurines placed in ancient tombs to serve as slaves for departed souls, or as substitutes for souls who might be required to perform forced labor. Romantic, isn’t it, to think of any of them serving others in the afterlife?” Gautier lifted a glass toward the assembly in a mock toast. He was probably well on his way to inebriation, too.

  Despite her lingering headache and concern about what criminal might be prowling the party, Violet couldn’t help laughing. “Yes, terribly romantic, Théo. Shall I undertake you one day and put a shawabti upon your coffin to write plays for you?”

  He put a hand to his chest. “Mon Dieu, non, Madame Harper. I need a shawabti specifically to keep away the critics, as mine is the only worthwhile opinion, of course. You will see to it, won’t you?”

  “I promise,” she replied solemnly in the spirit of the exchange. “But you may need two of them for such an important job.”

  Now that all of the primary dignitaries had made their grand entries, Rashad clapped his hands together twice to obtain everyone’s attention. “Now we will have the presentation of the medals.”

  To Violet’s surprise, a ceremony was now held whereby each of the sovereigns awarded Pasha an important medal of honor, adding to his already-decorated chest. Franz-Josef presented him with the Grand Cross of the Order of Leopold, consisting of a red-and-white-striped sash and an ornate cross that Franz-Josef pinned to Pasha’s chest. From Greece came the Grand Cross of the Order of the Redeemer, and the Italians presented him with the Grand Cross of the Order of the Crown of Italy. On it went, and Pasha beamed proudly at the array of glittering metal now hanging haphazardly from him.

  His son, though, scowled, seeming less than pleased at his father’s honors.

  “Act three, scene one,” Gautier said. “Guests are suffocating at a party that has no absinthe. A madman formerly known as an art critic takes out his rage on the assembly, and they are no match for his extraordinary strength due to the disgusting lack of liquor to lull him to a peaceable state. No, wait, I may have to rewrite that scene.” A server passed by with a tray of filled wineglasses, and Gautier followed him, leaving Violet alone in the crowd once more.

  Where in heaven’s name was Sam?

  A vision of teal and black approached her. “Madame Harper, where have you been?” Louise-Hélène said, her face flushed as she came rushing up to Violet. “I waited and waited for your return until I could wait no more.”

  “I, er, ran into a little trouble with the coffee. I apologize that I was unable to bring it to you,” Violet said, hoping to avoid further discussion of where she had been.

  “Well, I did so miss your company.”

  “Your dress is simply lovely,” Violet said, changing the subject completely.

  “Oh, this,” the girl said carelessly, then cast a covert glance at where Eugénie stood with de Lesseps. “It is nothing. De Lesseps purchased it for me as an early wedding gift, but I am sure he will shower me with others even grander. More colorful.”

  This wasn’t a good subject, either. “Where is Isabelle?”

  “A separate party is being held for the more important staff, in a tent in the back gardens.”

  Violet wondered if that was where Sam was. There had been no grand entrance for the Americans, as the soldiers were performing a service for the khedive, not representing President Grant. If Mott and his men were in the outdoor tent, Sam was surely with them.

  “Ma louloute, here you are.” De Lesseps had arrived, the glittering Eugénie still on his arm. “This is the pinnacle of the festivities, is it not?”

  “Yes, of course,” Louise-Hélène agreed meekly. It was remarkable how Eugénie could cause the girl to wither, like a rose suffering from a lack of water.

  Eugénie snapped open a fan whose leaves were elaborately painted with a pastoral scene. She raked Louise-Hélène over in a single complacent glance. “You look lovely, my dear. Very elegant.” The empress’s insincerity toward Louise-Hélène settled like a heavy cloak around the girl’s shoulders, and Violet could have sworn she saw Louise-Hélène’s shoulders sag.

  Eugénie seemed oblivious. “Will the dancing start soon?” she said, her gaze flitting about distractedly. That gaze caught Franz-Josef stoically enduring the chattering of some minor noblewoman, and Eugénie quickly excused herself.

  Louise-Hélène immediately revived, as if her blooms had been offered a midsummer shower.

  Violet knew she had to quit worrying about Louise-Hélène, as there were far more pressing matters at hand. “Monsieur de Lesseps, this is indeed a remarkable gathering of the world’s leaders. I had not realized before that that young man was Pasha’s son.”

  De Lesseps glanced back to where Tewfik still stood sullenly with his father while Pasha continued collecting handshakes, cheek kisses, and congratulations on his multiple awards. “Pasha has many wives and many children, but Tewfik ees his heir. I don’t believe either of them is happy with the prospect.”

  “That is very sad,” Violet murmured. “May I ask, have you heard of someone named Orabi?”

  De Lesseps turned his attentions back sharply. “You mean Colonel Ahmed Orabi? He ees the radical, madame, and best forgotten. He is a member of the fellahin, but the first to rise up in the military ranks of the Egyptian army. Orabi believes that non-Egyptians should be evicted from the country because they prevent the peasant class from earning a living. Imagine how the canal building would have been impacted if I had been unable to import Greeks and Turks and other nationalities to finish it. There wouldn’t have been enough Egyptians available if Pasha himself had agreed to work on it.”
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br />   Violet wondered why Tewfik would have brought Orabi up to his father in an argument.

  “Where ees your husband, Madame Harper?” de Lesseps asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. We came separately as your fiancée invited me to get dressed with her—”

  “Except that she ran off from me, Ferdinand.” Louise-Hélène attempted this coyly, as Eugénie might have done, but she wasn’t experienced enough at witty banter, so her statement dropped to the ground like an anchor.

  Violet attempted to tug at the anchor. “Your fiancée is quite correct, monsieur. I was so overtaken by your magnificent villa that I found myself in too much awe to even remain in Mademoiselle de Bragard’s rooms. She has graciously forgiven me, and I hope that you will forgive me also, as I am eager to locate my husband.”

  Good Lord, she was turning into a courtier. Violet shook her head at the thought as she quietly moved away, and the motion reminded her that she was still suffering the throbbing effects of the earlier blow to her head.

  She hadn’t made it very far before she was accosted by General Ignatiev, who for once was not in the duke’s company. “Violet Rose, you have discovered cause of death for the Austrian?” he asked without preamble.

  Violet wondered at the man’s deep interest in Dorn, but said politely, “It was not completely clear. However, there were wine and absinthe flowing freely during the dinner, and perhaps the two do not mix well.”

  Ignatiev grunted. “You look in wrong direction. These Egyptians, they like opium.”

  Violet shook her head. “But Herr Dorn is—was—not an Egyptian.” Nor was Purdy.

  “Of no matter. He probably die of opium.” He said the words with finality, as though, now that he had declared the truth of the matter, there was nothing more to be said. What was the source of his interest in the fallen Austrian? Was it merely concern for a fellow delegate, or was there something darker in it?